


Crossing the line

by Niwgamme



Series: Whumptober 2019 [2]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Blood, Gen, Self-Harm, The Farm (Assassin's Creed), Whumptober 2019, it is unintentional
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-26 05:51:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20925218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niwgamme/pseuds/Niwgamme
Summary: Whumptober 2019 prompt #2 - Bloody handsDesmond is sixteen years old, living with his parents on the Farm. But he can't do that anymore. Not after this.





	Crossing the line

Desmond is sixteen years old and his life feels messed up and overwhelming. He knows what it should be like for an average teenager. He thinks about the world he’s only ever seen but never actively participated in.

Instead he’s lived his whole life in South Dakota, in a base everyone refers to simply as “the Farm”. The Farm is closer to a small village in the middle of nowhere than an actual farm, a small community that would look picturesque to any potential visitors from outside they might have.

Desmond is a member of a cult he doesn’t remember signing into, and his father is the leader.

He has all kind of knowledge in his head. He’s been fed information ever since he was a child. He was given puzzles instead of toys, and was taught how to fight instead of playing hide and seek. His father’s version of hide and seek always ended up in bruises anyway.

So he has all this knowledge of a wannabe illuminati group that is apparently trying to take control of the world. That is a fact on the Farm and no one will hear otherwise. It’d be funny if it weren’t scary, the conviction with which everyone’s accepting everything his father’s feeding them.

They call themselves the Assassins and that's… Yeah.

And after today, he _needs_ to get out of here. Today was a step over the line he was unwilling to cross.

He’s standing in his bathroom, the door is locked because he saw his father’s face when he ran here and he knows he might come look for him.

He feels his hands shaking but he refuses to look at them. He’s facing the mirror and thankfully, it’s the same as always, his face is just a tone paler and his eyes are rimmed red, but he still looks human. He shouldn’t. But the outside doesn’t reflect what’s inside after all.

His hands were sticky only a few moments ago but now they feel rough, like they’re covered in dried paint. He’s still not looking at them but even if he were to look, his vision is too blurry and they would look like two dark stains in the otherwise white background of the pristine bathroom.

He threw his stained hoodie on the ground somewhere outside as soon as he could.

He starts the water and braces himself, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes. He opens them as he exhales and looks down.

His breath hitches. His hands are no longer carmine-coloured as he imagined it, the splatters are darker. Maybe if he waits a moment longer, they will turn seal brown.

The shaking travels up his arms and spreads all over.

He dives his hands under the running water and for a moment, nothing happens. But then the water colours in a light shade of pink as the red starts dissolving.

Desmond frowns down at his hands. He feels sick as shards of memories flash before his eyes. He’s in a dark room. He’s been there before but–

He grabs a bar of soap and starts scrubbing his hands, covering them in pink bubbles. The water is getting darker and so is his vision. The only clear focus is on his hands.

Rinse and repeat.

Where did he leave the knife? He must have left it _there_.

And repeat. He’s scrubbing his hands harder because it’s not going down. The water is still running red.

What did that man even do? What was his crime to deserve such punishment?

And repeat. He’s trembling. He should have run away sooner.

Why did it have to be Desmond specifically? He’s still a child. <strike>He’s not a child anymore, not after this</strike>. Why did he listen to his father like one of his sheep?

His hands are red but it’s the right red this time. The water is lighter too. He doesn’t know how long he’s been standing here and scrubbing his hands but perhaps they should feel a bit sore. He feels nothing.

Until he does. He lifts his hands to inspect them and sees why they’re not clean. <strike>They will never be clean again.</strike>

There is blood, but the sight of it makes him feel calm. The red leaks out from small cuts on his knuckles and spots where he scrubbed the skin off. This is his blood.

He wipes his hands into the fabric of his jeans, hissing when it irritates the tender skin there. He feels sluggish, the adrenaline ran out and left him exhausted.

But he can’t wait a minute longer. His father will certainly come looking for him, though not to comfort but berate. He makes up his mind and leaves the bathroom. Goes straight for his closet and his backpack. He won’t need much. He starts putting in essentials only.

He thinks of his mother, her warm smile, and falters.

He thinks of his father, his stern words and cold looks, and hesitates.

He thinks of bloody hands, warm blood that belonged to someone else, of terrified expression of a man that could have been innocent, and closes the door behind himself as he leaves his room.

He clenches his hands, nails digging into sore spots, as he leaves the Farm behind and doesn’t look back.


End file.
